


Marks of his love

by FireandRosemary



Series: Life With The Old Guard [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Drawing, Fluff, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, cannot get enough of these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireandRosemary/pseuds/FireandRosemary
Summary: And so, Joe will create art.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Life With The Old Guard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088633
Comments: 26
Kudos: 184





	Marks of his love

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched The Old Guard and absolutely cannot get enough of these two. My first attempt at a fic in this fandom.

Joe has made many marks on Nicky.

But none of them stay.

His first mark was a blade through the chest, which he is rather grateful was not permanent, along with the many other deaths they inflicted on each other. He can remember each of those, each death he brought to the man who would become his love, each wound he slashed into that perfect skin, spilling blood into dust and sand. Joe has kissed each of those places, for although no trace remains, he remembers all.

Now, the marks he makes are those of love.

He kisses his love, the other half of his very soul. Kisses him until his lips are red. Joe bites the pale skin of that perfect neck as Nicky throws his head back, begging for it in every movement and moan. Red marks appear under his mouth as he worships Nicky, small bruises that would display his love to the world. But they are gone in moments. Even the marks of their most voracious lovemaking, those of gripping hands and the lines of Joe's nails down the smooth expanse of Nicky's back, vanish in seconds.

Joe would love to be able to leave the smallest of mark on Nicky, the barest reminder of their passion. But he cannot.

He knows Nicky wishes it could be so, wishes sometimes to be able to claim and be claimed. They are not rampant teens, leaving love bites all over each other, despite what Andy and Booker may say. But sometimes, just sometimes, the smallest mark would be nice. Seconds after their bodies have parted and they have showered, they might never have touched each other at all. For there is no physical reminder. Except, according to Andy, you could light a city with the glow they give off.

The first time is a whim, a silly moment.

Joe is sketching idly while Nicky sleeps beside him on the sofa. He is using a ballpoint pen, it's all he was able to find here after his pencil was smashed. He will replace his pencil later, but for now, he just wants to draw. Nicky shifts closer in his sleep, one arm wrapping over Joe's lap. Joe moves to acommodate him so that Nicky can be comfortable while Joe is able to keep drawing. As he moves, the pen slips across the skin of Nicky's arm, a fine black line on a fair canvas.

Nicky doesn't stir.

Joe looks at the mark, and back at Nicky's face, so youthful in sleep. The idea strikes him, and he is well aware it might not be sensible; Nicky does not take kindly to being woken. But he has not killed Joe by accident for several centuries, somehow sensing if Joe is the one doing the waking. So Joe lowers the pen. He is careful as he inks a small character on the inside of Nicky's wrist, one of many Arabic symbols for love. As he looks at the small script and the face of the man who is his heart, Joe smiles. He does not draw more, he doubts Nicky would be too pleased to find himself covered in biro when he wakes, instead he puts the pen down, rests a hand on Nicky's hair and sleeps.

When Nicky wakes, Joes says nothing about the mark. He waits to see if Nicky will notice it, and even then, if he will say anything.

Nicky notices when he washes his hands before making dinner. Joe sees him glance at his wrist. He knows Nicky will recognise the word, knows Nicky will be aware that only one person could or would lay such a word on his skin. Although Nicky says nothing, Joe sees him smile and take care with his washing so as not to remove the mark.

It is only later, when they are curled together on the small bed, Joe's chest pressed against Nicky's back that Nicky says anything.

"Have you run out of paper?" his voice is soft, amusement behind his quiet words. He holds up their interlaced hands and the mark still shows against his wrist in the dim light.

"No, my love, I had a moment of madness while you slept." Joe runs his thumb softly over the word.

When Nicky speaks again, his voice is quiet as he drifts into sleep.

"I like this madness."

Joe does not reply, for he can tell sleep has just claimed Nicky. Instead he holds him close and sleeps himself.

It is a few weeks later, a new mission, new deaths, a new safe-house.

They are sat together, clean of blood and wounds once more. They have settled on a blanket on the floor, there are chairs, but they want to be close, they will never grow used to watching the other die. Joe runs his fingers over Nicky's arm, feeling the muscles beneath the skin, the pulse of blood and warmth reassuring under his hand. He is surprised when Nicky pushes a biro into his hand and offers his arm.

"You want me to draw on you?" Joe can't quite believe it.

Nicky says nothing, he doesn't need to. So Joe takes his arm, turning it palm up and sets to work. He draws flowers and vines, starting at the wrist. By the time he is finished, the vine has grown, blooming with flowers and leaves under his pen across the entirety of Nicky's forearm. An image of growth and life after the deaths they have just suffered. When he is done, they both feel better and they fall into sleep.

So they continue. Sometimes when they have had a tough mission, sometimes between jobs, sometimes, though more rarely when they just have time.

Joe has drawn over so much of Nicky's skin now. He has used biros, brushes and ink, even paint once. If they have time, Nicky will stretch out on the bed and Joe will cover the perfect expanse of his back. He has drawn vines, that twist and turn. Patterns that interlock and spiral. Birds that look as though they would take flight. Cities. Wild landscapes. He has written pages of script in many tongues, poetry, songs and declarations of his love. He has drawn images from his head and sketched what he can see from the window.

"You're turning me into a work of art again," Nicky mumbles, his head on folded arms.

"You are already a work of art, my love," Joe whispers. He kisses skin not yet covered in ink and bends over his canvas as Nicky hums in contentment.

The others spot the patterns on Nicky's skin, especially those in biro. Andy merely smiles, but Booker asks. They merely tell him it is harmless fun. He does not ask again, but they see him glance at them next time Joe is creating a pattern on Nicky's arm.

Sometimes, if they must be in different places for a job, Nicky will come to him before they leave, biro in hand. Joe will mark his skin then, leaving traces of his love for Nicky to see. It is only on these occassions that Nicky will take the pen afterwards, and leave his own marks on Joe too.

All of these marks wash away too of course. Joe thinks it is a pleasant change to see ink instead of blood in the swirling water when they shower and he helps Nicky wash the latest patterns from his back. These marks of love, just like any of the others Joe leaves on Nicky's skin must fade. But unlike the others, these last just a little longer.


End file.
